


Twenty-One Years

by notearchiver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Community: minerva_fest, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notearchiver/pseuds/notearchiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Minerva wishes she could claim that the first thing she thought of was their deaths, but she can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty-One Years

**Author's Note:**

> For Minerva_Fest 2013.
> 
>  **Title:** Twenty-One Years  
>  **Author:** notearchiver  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Word Count:** ~1.500  
>  **Characters and/or Pairings:** Minerva/Muriel  
>  **Warnings:** angst, existential crises, atrocious colour choices, meandering, and Muriel.

* * *

The morning fog hangs low over Privet Drive, droplets obscuring the street lamps and sinking to skim the tops of shrubbery. It is heavier than usual, perhaps, but no one is awake to find it odd, just as no one is awake to see the flowing figure of a woman stride briskly down the pavement. And if they did, well, who is to say it isn't an apparition? A fleeting image made of wind currents and water.

Of course, if the woman knew this, she would most likely protest the assessment, never mind that she feels rather deadened inside. Because they're dead, aren't they? Just a flash of green light, two little words, six simple syllables and an ounce of intent. Perhaps less than that. But does the amount really matter? What's done is done. What's happened has happened.

And it all happened so fast.

Twenty-one years erased in less than three minutes.

The women settles onto a low wall, fog swirling around her emerald cloak, permeating the woven fabric.

And what was twenty-one years? Twenty-one leaving feasts? 7.665 days? A handful of NEWTs? A marriage?

It certainly wasn't much. It certainly wasn't enough. Nowhere near enough.

What was twenty-one years? It was a child left without parents, and crueler still, a child left with no memories of them. A child swaddled clumsily by a half-giant, destined to be deposited at a stranger's door like an unwanted babe left on the steps of an orphanage.

The woman shakes her head, a strand of black hair escaping a tight bun fashioned by trembling fingers. Through the slowly lessening fog, she spots flares of light on the horizon from improperly cast Fireworks Charms even as the sun's rays begin to dispel the shadows.

She wishes she could claim that the first thing she thought of was their deaths, was the boy left abandoned by a strange twist of fate, but she can't. Because she didn't.

She didn't think of how they were only twenty-one years old. She didn't think of her red hair reflected by the Black Lake, didn't think of his face shining with sweat as he worked to outrun Argus.

The first thing she thought of was how she would never have to see that skeletal figure again.

The first thing she thought of was that she hoped it had hurt. She hoped that he tumbled downward and hit his head on a rock. She hoped that he toppled Lucifer off his cliff and was punished accordingly. She hoped that he got what he deserved.

The first thing she thought of was that she hoped that he would finally, finally stop haunting her dreams.

The last imprint of fog lifts, revealing straight corners and peaked roofs and evenly cut blades of grass. Through her uncharacteristically blurred spectacles, she surveys the house across the street. The inscription mocks her.

Number four.

What was twenty-one years? It was child receiving his Hogwarts letter addressed to a number, not a name.

What was twenty-one years? It was less than a quarter of a life. Less than—

"I never expected my Tracking Spell would lead me to a Muggle neighbourhood."

The woman does not turn to see who it is. "You're supposed to be in bed, Muriel."

Muriel sits down behind the woman, carefully arranging her flamingo-pink dressing gown so it doesn't touch the muddy pavement. "As are you, Minerva." She clucks her tongue. "Look at you, wearing green on a day of celebration!" She smoothes the edge of Minerva's emerald cloak. "And not even good quality, at that. Really, dear, you must let me make an appointment with my tailor for you." Cinching the fluffy tie of her dressing gown tighter to ward off the chill, Muriel begins to rub Minerva's back, arthritic fingers making circles in the shape of ovals. "I keep telling you that a different cut would show off your figure much better. Why hide your—"

"Not now, Muriel," Minerva says, shrugging off the hands. She shakes her cloak so the edge curls once more, and Muriel sighs.

"Is there ever a now with you?" Muriel asks, throwing up her hands in an exasperated motion. "It's always 'later' and 'there are things I need to do at Hogwarts', never 'of course, dear, I would love to spend an extra fifteen minutes in bed this morning' or 'Albus can wait a half hour'.

Minerva abruptly stands up. "That has nothing to do with this instance!" She spins to face Muriel, continuing, "Don't you understand? This isn't a day for—" She breaks off, mouth frozen half-way to its next consonant. She lets out a single gasp, the sound similar to a merman's guttural groan distorted by a storm. "What?" Minerva blinks rapidly. "What are you?" She hiccups and convulsively reaches to rearrange her bun. "That thing?"

Muriel smiles broadly, standing and turning leisurely in a circle. The fluffy tie of the dressing gown tangles with the magenta lace border that is sewn to the pink silk with orange thread. Soft-soled, purple-tufted shoes complete the ensemble. Minerva did not know something could clash so spectacularly.

"It's grand, isn't it?" Muriel beams. "Albus gave it to me for my birthday. I was going to surprise you with it this morning. I suppose this will have to do, though."

Minerva presses her lips together. The sun has fully revealed itself, and a ray of light glances off her spectacles. It momentarily illuminates a single trace of liquid entrapped in the corner where her right eyeball meets the skin of its socket.

Muriel doesn't need coincidental glimmers of light to see the shakes racking Minerva's frame, nor does she need the dimming of street lamps to reveal the shadows gathered in Minerva's eyes, but that doesn't mean they don't happen. Muriel knows that things happen even when she doesn't need them to. Even when she doesn't want them to.

She knows that she can't change a future preordained any more than she can change the past.

She thought Minerva knew that too.

"Oh, dear." She sweeps forwards and envelops Minerva in her in her arms, the dressing gown tangling awkwardly with the green cloak. "Shhh…shhhh…"

Muriel knows how to handle crises—Molly's brood has certainly given her enough experience—but those are children and this is Minerva. A Minerva who in twenty-one years of being her lover has never had a crisis. A Minerva who is strong and agile and regal.

A Minerva who would never throw herself into the arms of a woman wearing a flamingo-pink, fluffy dressing gown in the middle of a street in a Muggle neighbourhood.

So as the tears being to drip slowly down Minerva's face, Muriel does what she does best: she talks.

"I don't suppose you heard that Griselda took Amelia out to dinner last week, did you? I saw them at La Paix." Muriel guides Minerva back to the wall and coaxes her into sitting down. Minerva continues to cry, hiccups interspersing the meandering sobs. "I honestly don't know what Amelia is looking for. Last I saw her, Griselda's twat was more wrinkled than her face!" Minerva emits a particularly loud hiccup, and Muriel nods sympathetically. "Yes, it was horrible. I still have the occasional nightmare about that gaping hole and those sagging lips trying to smother me!" Shuddering, Minerva burrows deeper into the folds of Muriel's dressing gown. "You're quite right; best not to speak of it," Muriel says, patting Minerva's back. "I heard that Garrick is considering raising his prices again, now that the War's over and it's less likely people will need to replace their wand. Bathilda reckons the price will go up to six galleons, but I'm not sure."

An owl flies drunkenly overhead. Its right wing clips the edge of a street lamp with a loud thump, and Minerva looks up. The offending street lamp is the one in front of Number four.

What was twenty-one years? It was hours of gossip and pots of tea. It was issues of The Daily Prophet opened to Rita Skeeter's articles. It was loud laughter and familiar hands and arguments about time management.

What was twenty-one years? It was a lover and a mother and a father and a boy and a monster. It was fireworks and green cloaks and flamingo-pink dressing gowns.

"Home?" Minerva asks.

Muriel looks down at Minerva—fragile Minerva with a piece of pink fluff stuck to her running nose—and smiles.

What was twenty-one years?

"Of course, dear," she murmurs.


End file.
